The Perfect Plan for Revenge
by I'm Beth
Summary: In which Axel scores, Roxas is the recipient of more buttsex than was previously thought possible in the single sitting, or not, of one week, and Zexion learns rock music isn't really that bad. AkuRoku. Zemyx.


A/N: This is just an experiment. Tell me what you think plz

Edit: Some of you pointed out that I'd gotten Zexion and Demyx's numbers confused (Thank you greatly, seriously, I would have been so embarrassed to find out later I probably would have just taken it down completely). I fixed that but I still feel lame. Oh well.

Demyx's Perfect Plan for Revenge Against the Red-Headed Fiend Known as Axel:

In which Axel scores, Roxas is the recipient of more buttsex than was previously thought possible in the single sitting (or not) of one week, and Zexion (who has, inadvertently, and through no fault of his own, been cast in the middle of things) learns rock music isn't really that bad.

This is not a story of revenge. I just want to make that perfectly clear before we go on any further. Even I'm not so petty as to resort to revenge. This is the story of how it came to my attention that something had to be done about the red-headed fiend known as Axel.

Let's show, as Example One, a conversation I had with Axel only a few weeks ago:

"_Hey, Axel, have you seen my sitar?"_

"_Uh, your what, now?"_

"_My sitar."_

"_Hm. . . And what does it look like?"_

"_You know what it looks like."_

"_I forgot."_

"_What did you do with my sitar, Axel?"_

"_Why do you automatically assume it was me that did something to it? Maybe, uh. . . Larxene. . ."_

"_. . ."_

"_Um. . ."_

"_Axel?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Did you set my sitar on fire? . . . Again?"_

"_. . ."_

But that wasn't even how it began. Let us factor in everything else about Axel that might make a normally sane person want to commit mass homicide.

His eye-watering, gravity-defying, firetruck-red hair (I have never told anyone this, but once, I saw Axel getting out of bed AND THE RUMORS ARE ALL TRUE! _His hair is like that naturally_!)

His stupid, condescending, clown-porn tattoos.

Those impossibly feminine hips.

His catchphrase.

His pedo-fag-ness.

And lets not forget the fact that he has the troubling habit of setting my things on fire.

And so, I, being the type of person who does not take having a blackened and charred sitar lightly, started to plan, what I lovingly referred to as The Perfect Plan For Constructive Ambush (aka Revenge, but I haven't sunk so low as to refer to it as such yet). Which was a lot harder than it sounded, believe it or not. A lot harder than chasing the afore mentioned red-head around The World That Never Was, wildly waving the afore mentioned charred and blackened sitar over my head with threats of decapitation and "well-we'll-see-who's-laughing-when-I-shove-this-sitar-so-far-up-your-ass-you-won't-even-be-able-to-rock-those-child-bearing-hips-into-Roxas's-poor-abused-anus-ever-again". (Roxas had considered that an insult to himself as well, though I couldn't see how. It seemed like a fact of life now; the Shadows are black, the Dusks are white, Roxas bends over some random piece of furniture for Axel once every few days.)

Now, to explain what I'm going to do to Axel, first, I have to tell you a bit more about Roxas. It's called background, and it's a very important component to my story (Zexion told me that). You see, Roxas was, in theory, a badass —a loner, a grump, unflappably emo— but now-a-days, the only one who actually saw him as one would be a mirror. This started a few days after Roxas first came to the Organization. Axel, being the pedo-fag that he is, immediately got his finely manicured claws into him, and it was very uncomfortable and awkward for everyone around them to watch. It was like that kid you saw at school who always wears long-sleeved shirts, even when it's summer, and their parents never come to the parent/teacher meetings. You know that someone's beating them, but what are you going to do about it? So if Roxas came to breakfast one day with a bit of a limp, and winced when he sat down a little, then everyone just had to look the other way and grumble into their coffee cups or gossip behind their hands, because it was a firm rule here at Organization XII, that if no one asks, then no one needs to know. It was the same as refraining from asking Marluxia or Larxene about their genders, or asking Saix how exactly he got that scar, or asking the Underground members if it was true that they had orgies all the time. It was called having manners (Zexion told me that too, after a lengthy explanation about how most nobodies either couldn't or hadn't the desire to have sex, even with other nobodies. _"So, no. I'm not participating in _any_ orgies at the moment."_)

And so life went on like that at the Organization, with everyone averting their gazes when Axel felt the need to whisper some pedophilia-like phrase in Roxas's ear, or disappear with him for long periods of time, or (perhaps the worst) cop a feel in public.

I tried not to think about it, really I did, but when one turns the corner only to be graced with the sound of. . . well, sex. (That's what it sounded like to me, anyway, though I don't know how much room for doubt _'Oh Axel it's so gooood ohh oohhh Axel harder yessss!' _leaves.) And the very worst part about all this is —oh yes, there is something worse than listening to a boy who's probably only fifteen get his brains fucked out— the sounds are coming from _my room_.

What can I do? Thrust open the door and confront them? Technically, yes —but I don't have to. As they say, _"The only thing you have to do is die";_ even as a Nobody, I've retained my free will, and with it, the choice to be a coward. So. . .

I turn and scamper away with my tail between my legs.

Which, in turn, leaves me screwed.

Let me explain. The reason I'd been going down that particular hallway was because I'd been going to get paperwork for Zexion. He and I had been on a mission to Agrabah last week, and he needed my mission statement, explaining that there was _nothing_ there (And by nothing, I mean, _nothing_. Especially no water. Not a drop. No swimming, no splashing, and if it rained that just meant a city of mud.) to give to Superior. Which I'd left in my room. Which had been down that hall. Which I'd just abandoned in a vain attempt to keep the innocence of my poor virgin eyes.

Which meant that Zexion was going to _kill_ me.

Let me explain.

Now, I don't think Zexion hates me, but I don't think he likes me either. He doesn't seem to _hate_ or _like_ anyone, really. He pretty much _nothings_ the world. So you can imagine how our mission went, last week. . .

_~flashback~_

"_Number Nine! Turn off that geyser this instance!"_

"_But Zexion! I need water to fight!"_

"_The heartless are all gone! Turn it off! Someone's going notice!"_

"_But Zexion! It's so dry here—."_

"_TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF NOW!"_

_~end flashback~_

Interestingly enough, I have a feeling that that had been the closest Zexion has ever come to hating a person. So, of course, not turning in my mission report on time will only solidify that hatred.

It wasn't a calming thought, so naturally, it didn't calm me down one bit. I'd decided on hiding out in the dining hall until The Emo-est Chef in the World (That Never Was) found me; I was in the middle of of sucking on some sea-salt ice cream (which had been labeled "Axel's DO NOT TOUCH", but I wasn't feeling very charitable at the moment, escpecially not for that asshole —this was all his fault anyway) when I head a voice from down the hall.

A very familiar voice.

The kind of voice a person associates with corporate bosses, pimps, and that math tutor you had in middle school who would never consider going out with a nerdy little kid like you.

"Have you seen number nine?"

It was the voice of Zexion.

Shit.

I don't know who it was he had asked, but whoever it was obviously didn't care if I lived or died, because the next thing I knew the doors to the dining hall were crashing open and there was Zexion, in all his short, emo-haired, scowling glory. His eyes scan the room for barely a second before he sees me sitting here, which is pretty obvious. I didn't have much hope for hiding in a completely white room, dressed completely in black with a bright blue popsicle in my hand.

I realize then, that I have to make a decision right now; one of those decisions people have to make sometimes that can determine whether they live or die. There is a crossroads before me, and I must choose.

Right now, as I see it, I have two options:

I can A). Play dumb and act like I'd completely forgotten about the mission report. He'll scold me for a minute, perhaps give me that scathing look that I've by now learned means _Why oh why am I forced to breath the same air as this idiot?_ And then he'll leave and I can go back to my room, fill it with water and drown those horny assholes out like a couple of ants, get the mission reports, give them to Zexion, and go on with my merry life.

Or. . .

Or I can B). Apologize to Zexion and explain the situation. Surely, he's been put in the awkward position of having inconsiderate assholes invade his room and start having wild, monkey sex on his bed. He'll understand.

Zexion approaches me and crosses his arms over that skinny chest of his. He cocks his eyebrow like only assholes can and just _stares _at me. "Well?"

I sigh, then take a big breath as though I miss it, and . . .

_*ten minutes later*_

"No," Zexion gritted out between clenched teeth. "I don't believe I've _ever_ walked into my room to find _anyone_ having wild monkey sex on my bed. You'd think I'd remember something like that."

If I ever met the guy who said telling the truth was better than lying, I'd shoot him.

"As a matter of fact," Zexion went on with the same arid expression on his seething face. "I find that story a little unbelievable. I mean," And here he laughs that laugh that has nothing to do with humor and everything to do with slow and tortuous murder. "What are the odds of Axel and Roxas shacking up in your room on the one day you really, _really_ needed it? Especially when Axel's room is, what, three doors down from your's?" He smiles that smile at me that has nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with slicing me up from head to toe with a rusty butter knife. "Seems strange, doesn't it?"

"Maybe, uh. . ." I'm looking at my boot and wondering if I put them on the wrong feet this morning. "Maybe they just, uh. . . couldn't wait. . ."

Zexion does not look amused. But then again, Zexion never looks amused. As far as I've seen, Zexion has three settings: Pleased, conniving, and bloody fucking pissed, and none of these seem to require him to open his eye more than halfway.

"Get those papers to me by tonight," Zexion snaps at me over his shoulder (and by 'over his shoulder', I don't mean that he turned around or stopped, or anything inconvenient like that. I mean he said it to the door as he pushed it open and called it out to the empty hallway before him) as he's heading out the door. "If you don't I'll serve your dick to Lexaeus in a sushi roll."

Fifteen minutes after the echoes of the door slamming had faded away, I figured it was safe to breath again. Perplexed, I leaned back against the table I'd been cowering at for the last thirty minutes, and wondered what bothered me more; the immediate threat to "Sitar Jr.", or the fact that Zexion called me number nine, but was on first name basis with Lexaeus.


End file.
